“Does the lass know of your plans, cousin?” the laird asked the earl.
“She has an inkling,” Bothwell responded. “She was told there was a possible match for her, and she was to come to court to meet the gentleman.”
“What if Rosamund Bolton had not fallen in love with another and had agreed to be my wife?” Logan queried.
“Then I should have found bonnie Jean another suitable husband,” the earl replied. “But I do not have to, do I, Logan?”
“Nay, you do not. She is pretty, she is young, and being convent bred undoubtedly amenable. If I cannot have Rosamund, this lass will do as well as any,” Logan said, resigned.
“ ’Tis not such a bad fate, cousin,” the earl noted.
“Come then, and introduce us, my lord,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said. “The sooner, the better, if you want me wedded and bedded on Twelfth Night. We should give the lass a little time to know the man she is to be shackled to for the rest of her life.” He arose from the table, the earl with him.
Together the two men walked to the end of the long board, and Patrick Hepburn stopped within the young girl’s gaze. She looked up, stood quickly, and curtsied to him.
“My lord Bothwell,” she said breathlessly, her curious gaze going to the earl’s companion. Her cheeks were pink, and her heart was beating rapidly.
“What, my bonnie Jean, it was Uncle Patrick the last time we met,” Bothwell said jovially. He tipped her small face up and gave her a quick kiss upon her lips. “You are being treated well in the queen’s household?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Patrick!” she replied.
“Well, lassie, you’ll not be there much longer, for you are to be married. But, then, your father told you it might be so, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” came the soft answer. Her blush deepened.
“Then, allow me to present my cousin, whose mother, God assoil her good soul, was a member of your own clan. This is Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, Jean. You will be married to him on Twelfth Night here at Stirling.”
“Mistress Jean,” Logan said, bowing over the girl’s little hand as he took it up and kissed it. The small hand trembled in his, and he immediately felt protective of her.
She blushed again, but she looked directly at him. “My lord.”
He smiled at her, thinking the blush charming. Poor little lass, she had no choice in the matter and knew not what she was getting into at all. And then in a flash he understood what Rosamund had been forced to endure. “We have little time in which to get to know each other, Mistress Jean,” he said to her.
“We will have a lifetime together, my lord,” she answered, surprising him. “Besides, many girls never meet their bridegrooms until they are standing at the altar.”
“Which,” he remarked, “can often be a shock.”
She giggled. “On both sides, my lord,” she replied quickly.
In that moment he decided he was going to like her. He could only hope that she would like him.
“I shall leave you two to become acquainted,” the Earl of Bothwell said to the pair, and he moved quickly off.
There was a long, awkward silence, and then the laird of Claven’s Carn took Jeannie’s hand and said, “Let us stroll away from the revelers and talk, mistress.”
“I should like that,” Jean Logan responded, moving by his side. She was very petite, and he towered over her.
“I would tell you, Mistress Jean, that I require honesty above all things, and so I must ask you if you are content to make this marriage with me.”
“I am, my lord,” she said. Her voice was soft, but it did not quiver.
“And your heart is not engaged by any other?” he asked her. “For if it is, I would not force you into a match.”
“My heart will be yours, my lord, and no other’s,” Jean Logan said honestly.
He nodded. “I have two brothers,” he began. “Claven’s Carn is in the borders. We are not rich, but we are comfortable. The house is snug, and it will be yours to rule.”
“Have you ever been wed before, my lord?” she asked.
